Jesse's Reading List

Gritty and gripping. Trigell's Briticised prose is as crisp as a hand-pulled pint, as flavorful and turgidly suggestive as bangers and mash. This is 400 BC Greek drama set in early 21st century Britain, written in mid-21st century English. Do good people do bad things? And vice-versa? The book's deepest flaw, to me, was its unbelievability. Besides the ending (which I won't spoil; let's just say I've done something similar, and it's not really like that--if you want to try, just come over to my apartment any Tuesday afternoon and we'll give it a jump), there is the fact that "Boy A" is a saint. Shows up to work on time. Is kind, polite, reserved. Loves his fat girlfriend dearly. Wants nothing more than to do well by others. His occasional outbursts always take the form of self-questioning or helping his friends. Prisons, at least as I understand them, do not lead one to sainthood. Especially if the saint, as a nine-year-old boy, stabbed to death a...

This is a good book and a worthwhile read. Unfortunately, it reinforced my suppositions. This in itself is not surprising, I suppose, given the similarities I share with the author: we both have PhDs in economics from Stanford; we both took a long time to finish our dissertations; we'd both rather be writing something besides economics; even both our forearms hurt when we spend too much time writing. What is surprising is the way in which it affirmed my prejudices. "That kid," I say to Paige, pointing to a semi-adorable girl of about four years. She trails behind her mother in the makeup store, examining a low shelf of eyeliner. "Someone could slit her throat. Would it have more meaning than if someone had killed a goat? This is the first time I've ever thought anything like that. I have lost the belief that there is something special about our species." Paige replies with simple, patient, characteristic wisdom, "Goats are pretty great." Maybe. I d...

I have been to the Barrancas del Cobre. I have hiked into its canyons, completely alone, for four days. McDougal exaggerates frequently. Still, there is nothing to stop hyperbole from containing truth. There is even less to stop it from entertaining. And much of this story makes sense. So much of it that I have begun to play around with barefoot running.

Only interesting, perhaps as a result of this reader’s masculine viewpoint, because of its obvious and revealing portrayals of Henry Miller in the role of Jay and of June Miller as Sabina. Taken as biography, engrossing and wonderful. I extended my walk all the way to the Hermosa Pier (about 2.5 miles, one-way) in order to absorb more of its pages, and stopped at Marine to soak up a few more. I lay back upon the low concrete fence for six pages while the man in the blue shirt serenaded the ocean with his harp concerto. I was also struck by how much overlap there is in vocabulary between Nin and Miller. They have stolen each other’s words like lovers stealing kisses: “semitone, excrescence, phosphenes, charivaris, fanfaronade, fandangoe, ridotto, coruscating.” I will rob corpses. I believe they would have liked this idea.

The most disturbing work I have ever read. A reminder that love is never one-way. Men and women can survive anything, but everything leaves its mark.

Hilarious and timeless. Yet another book that should replace some orthodox text occupying the stale reading lists of American schools. Further proof that there is no history, only men and women, over and over again.

One of the best endings I have ever read. His use of scenery to convey mood is remarkable, as is the age of the author at the time of the book’s writing. I have committed to memory a few lines: "So was civilization nothing but a vast edifice of sham, and the war, instead of its crumbling, was its fullest and most ultimate expression."